


The Princess of Triton

by gracediamondsfear



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Splash (1984), The Little Mermaid - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fairy Tales, Fluff and Angst, Magic AU, The Mourning Madam's Once Upon A Time Dramione Fairy Tale Fest, The little mermaid - Freeform, dark circus aesthetic, dramione - Freeform, mermaid Hermione, splash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2020-10-04 10:31:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20469566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracediamondsfear/pseuds/gracediamondsfear
Summary: Tom Riddle's Ship of Oddities sails the seas, pulling in to various ports and letting the townsfolk peruse the menagerie of creatures and collectibles held below decks. With the help of his assistant, the orphan wizard Draco Malfoy, they manage to pull in an actual mermaid and put her on display. Draco takes pity on the mermaid and works to find a spell to turn her human and set her free. However these spells take time and as they grow closer and Hermione sees how the human world treats magic creatures, she isn't quite sure she wants to be human after all.But maybe there's another path for these two lovers to find their way?Inspired by The Little Mermaid and a little bit by Splash :)





	1. The Slytherin

Tom Riddle’s Menagerie of Oddities was known the world over for its fascinating collection of the strange and macabre. His glorious three masted ship The Slytherin bore a coiled green and silver serpent on its massive sails to let the seaside towns know when he was pulling into port. And there he would stay, sometimes for weeks at a time, offering daily tours of the mysterious gallery held below deck…a maze of cages and cupboards and rooms filled with rarities procured from nearly every continent. Of course there were priceless and beautiful antiquities; a necklace of cursed jewels in a protective glass case, poisons to kill with a single drop on the tongue and grotesque, tragic, misshapen animals preserved in jars. There were even beautiful treasures like delicate fairy skeletons and the translucent white wing of a Peagasus. He had plants that snapped and ate mice whole, mirrors that offered visions of your greatest desire, even paintings that moved or spoke to those who walked by. The collection held so many outlandish specimens that often people wondered aloud if Riddle himself might be a demon, a sorcerer, or worst of all…a wizard.

Of course he was not, and in fact took great offense to the insinuation. The wizard was Draco Malfoy, an orphan that Riddle had found in the alleys of London, crouched in the corner quietly casting spells; turning rats into alabaster figurines that he sold for a few shillings on street corners, the garish black mark on his skinny arm revealing his magical nature. Wizards were frowned upon, considered abominations in the sight of the Lord, and even practicing their magic in the privacy of their own homes was cause enough to abuse or imprison them. Having had his parents hanged in the town square for supposedly hexing a local businessman, Little Draco was all alone, living on the streets, putting himself in grave danger by practicing magic in the open. But Riddle knew an opportunity on sight and he took it, offering the young boy a steady job and a life full of adventure on the seas. But don’t mistake this invitation for gallantry, for sympathy or kindheartedness. In fact, had Draco known ten years ago that the "adventure" would actually be slavery, exploitation and cruelty he would have run the other way. But he was in too far to leave now and with no family and no money and being the freak of nature that he was, he had no choice but to stay.

Besides, he could never leave Tilly.

Because Riddle’s Menagerie was not only made of books and paintings and colorful flora…he kept living creatures as well. He kept them all in cages, put collars around their necks and locked them in boxes and closets in the dark and damp recesses of the ship. Draco’s job was to care for them. There was the dog with three heads, two of which were happy to be pet and one perpetually sleeping, a little cage filled with Pixies, blue skin with slim legs and diaphanous wings, their giggling and flirting a constant undercurrent in Draco’s day unless he covered them with a black cloth for a few minutes of precious silence. There were giant spiders and birds with fur and horns, a small green creature that looked like the stem of a plant and was constantly getting lost below decks until Draco affixed a bell to his neck no larger than a grain of rice. Some of the creatures were actual magical beasts, tracked down in dark forests and murky swamps, captured and enslaved for the entertainment of the very people who had driven them into hiding, but most were regular animals transfigured by Draco himself…a pigeon turned into a Phoenix, a fat old beagle given two extra heads...he manufactured these lies for Riddle’s glory. But of all the creatures on display, Draco’s favorite was Tilly, a spritely white ferret who had a limitless bag of tricks. He walked tiny tight ropes, balanced on a red rubber ball, walked on his hind legs holding roses to give to the ladies. None of these things were magical, just the result of good training, Draco spending late nights and long boring days teaching the sleek little weasel everything he knew. When he was working Tilly would ride on his shoulder or curl up in the pocket of his apron, his head popping out to take in the scenery or a breath of fresh air. At night the ferret slept on Draco’s stomach, curled up and warm, listening to his master’s heart.

And this is how we find Draco now…swaying in his hammock as the ship sails close to the coast of Dover, a common port for them when gathering supplies. From there they will sail North and inland until they are close enough for word to get out that they are available for the people of London and their money. It’s a clear night, nearly a full moon, and the young wizard can’t fall asleep so he rolls out of his swinging bed and brings food to the creatures, most of which are nocturnal, pacing and chattering to each other in the humid dark below deck. He needs fresh air. He needs to see the cliffs, the stars, the lights of town on the horizon, anything that will remind him that there is more in the world than this ship, this citadel where he is both prisoner and warden. When the creatures are fed and quieted, soothed with kind words and soft strokes, Draco climbs up onto the deck and leans over the edge of the boat, breathing in the cool, salty air. As horrid as his life has become…he never does grow tired of the sea.

Hermione is the eldest daughter of King Triton, King of the Sea, and with that title comes certain privileges and power. Much like her father she can control the waters: alter the currents, spin up whirlpools and pull up great waves to toss and drag down the boats full of greedy and unlawful fishermen. Like her father, Hermione feels a personal responsibility for the creatures of the ocean, the beasts unable to defend themselves against the tools and weapons of man. Unlike her father, she has a deep and unquenchable curiosity about these men, these fragile creatures who think they own the seas and everything in them, so puffed and proud as to think they can plunder and kill daily without consequence. And so this morbid curiosity draws her closer than she should be, close enough to smell the rotting meat on their ships, to hear their voices, close enough to know they might see her as well, but she’s a powerful swimmer; a smooth and silent diver so she knows she can always evade them if necessary.

She sees the ship with green and silver sails skimming slowly over the calm seas, dragging a net behind, snaring any number of fish and crustaceans, too many to feed one crew. It’s odd to see them trawling at night so she swims a bit closer, watching the net from above and below. Her father has warned her against being seen by the blood-thirsty mortals, but still she keeps her head well above the surface, watching with narrowed eyes as a young man with white hair dumps a bucket of food scraps and waste over the side of the ship. Although she is a ways off from the boat, only her head visible, the young man stops and looks up, catching her eye immediately, holding her gaze for a long moment. She can’t seem to move; surprised at being discovered, and the man tips his head to the side to observe her, offering a small smile before finally disappearing into the belly of the boat.

Seeing the man makes her far too curious and courageous for her own good and she ventures closer. Now the boat is glowing golden light from its portholes, reflecting on the ripples of the water. She’s seen ships before, but this one is fascinating in its silence. There are no loud, drunken sailors, no humans pissing off the sides, no earsplitting music reverberating through the waves. In fact she’s seen no one at all except the young white haired man and even now he is nowhere to be found. Swimming around and beneath the boat, she dares a peek into the portholes but sees nothing familiar, only boxes and dark cloth, a few swinging lanterns. Pulling back from the ship she smells a sweet, rich smoke, nothing like the smell of a burning boat or the fires she’s seen in human battles. This is something different, almost pleasant. Still, smoke is usually a sign of danger and so she darts beneath the surface again, headed back to her home near the bottom of the sea. She is comfortable and confident and eager to go back to the boat when the sun is up for a closer look.

Because she doesn’t know that Tom Riddle was awake and smoking his pipe, his eyes wide as he caught sight of an actual mermaid, swimming freely around The Slytherin.

After gathering their supplies (tobacco and hard cheese, whiskey, a barrel of ale and a crate of biscuits) in port, Draco and Riddle board the ship and Draco sets to feeding and cleaning the various creatures, letting some of them free of their cages or boxes to roam and stretch their legs or wings when Riddle is asleep. Once they’ve set sail and charted a course North, he will fix a meal for himself and his master. He doesn’t necessarily enjoy his company, but it’s the only company he has.

“I’ll need another one of your invisible nets boy,” Riddle says as they sit below decks with tankards of ale, eating salted pork and boiled potatoes. “I’ve seen the prize of the sea and I’m going to snag her.”

Draco turns to Tiggy and feeds him a cheese rind to hide the rolling of his eyes. No doubt Riddle would ask him to transfigure an eel into a sea serpent or a crab into a Kelpie. He would create these fake magical beings and the hypocrites would pay gold to admire them, all the while torturing and imprisoning actual magical folk like himself, branding them with hideous and permanent marks on their arms, calling them dark sinners. His bitterness towards them was an endless black pit.

“What is it you want now Mr. Riddle? It will take me a bit to work up the spells,” he lies, hoping to buy the innocent sea creature just a bit more time.

In truth the spell was the same, he only needed to visualize a different beast. They have dozens of these false creatures, but Draco still isn’t sure if the actual transfiguration is painful. They are just innocent animals after all, unable to speak or express their discomfort.

“I don’t need your godless curses,” Riddle spits, although he has just asked for an invisible net. “I’ve found the real thing this time. I only need to capture it.”

Draco looks up, giving Tilly another bit of food.

“Oh?”

“I was out having a piss and a smoke last night and saw the flip of her tail, a bit of her hair in the moonlight, white like the belly of a fish. A genuine mermaid my boy.”

Draco’s blood runs cold. He’d seen the same mermaid himself, her head bobbing above the waves as she stared up at him. For once he agrees with Riddle; she was indeed the most gorgeous, perfect specimen they'd ever seen. And he prays desperately for her to stay safe.

For days she watches the ship as it slumbers in port near the rocky cliffs, only occasionally daring to approach the barnacle encrusted bow. In her secret observations she has discovered which porthole shows her the beautiful white haired man with skin like the moonlight and eyes the color of angry, lightning filled storm clouds. She watches him sleep, rocked by the waves, his rosy lips parted, hair mussed and hanging in front of his eye, chest finally bare of that useless clothing that humans insist on wearing. Just the sight of him, his gives her a thrill deep in her belly, forbidden and exciting. Sometimes at night she can see him on the deck of the ship, staring out over the water; never smiling, never speaking, he seems to be searching for something in the sea and she wishes more than anything she could bring it forth.

Likewise, he watches for her from the deck every night; a flash of her tail or the trail of her silvery white and blue hair, like sea foam on the waves. He’s been alive nearly twenty-one years and she is the most magical thing he’s ever encountered and knowing she will be captured, imprisoned, torn away from all that she knows, makes his heart tight with regret. But Mr. Riddle is never hesitant with a beating or a lashing with his belt, or worse with torturing the other creatures on board if Draco doesn’t behave, so when Tom asked him for the invisible net Draco built it, enchanting the ropes as asked, but still hoping she would stay clear of his snare.

It’s a dark night with calm seas and a waning moon when she swims up behind the boat, surprised to find the white haired man leaning over the edge, staring right down at her. His eyes are sharp and glittering in the murky moonlight and he frowns at her.

“Go!” He whispers, his voice low and hoarse.

Hermione doesn’t hear him and he leans over further, cringing as she dares to swim close enough to touch the side of the ship. Her face is nearly glowing, her eyes the color of sun on seawater, her white blue hair spread out over the surface, threaded through with delicate seaweeds and adorned with white shells. And in that moment Draco is torn between wanting to snare her for himself and telling her to dive to keep safe. He can’t look away. She is like a jewel floating up from the deep.

“GO!” he yells a bit louder.

“There boy! I see her! Pull in the net!”

Hermione flinches, looking for the source of the other voice but finding nothing. It must be the other man, the dark, rough hewn man she saw only once before. When she looks up to the deck again the white haired man is gone and before she can call out for him, before she can do anything at all, she feels tightness around her arms and tail, like the strongest tentacles of a squid, or thick, unforgiving seaweed, and yet there is nothing there. Her arms are pulled tight to her sides, her tail squeezed and bent up at an uncomfortable angle and she is dragged from the water, dangling in mid air.

“Bring her in boy! That’s it! We’ve got it! She’s gonna make me rich!”

She twists and writhes and cries out for her father, for anyone, a shark, a storm, the white haired man…but the invisible restraints pull her over the side and she is dumped onto the deck of the ship at the feet of the older, darker man. He crouches down, grinning at her with dull, yellowed teeth, an ugly brown stick between his teeth trailing white smoke into her eyes; the same sickly sweet, cloying smoke she’d smelled only a night before.

“Well well,” he says, running a knife through the net, which suddenly appears as nothing more than old, rotted, water logged rope. “She’s beautiful isn’t she boy? Take her downstairs to the tank. Your godless magic did just the trick.”

The dark man steps aside and reveals the white haired man, much younger, his face drawn and sad, eyes glittering in the dark as he meets her gaze. She angrily slaps her tail against the deck, the delicate gills in her neck flipping open and shut, desperate for oxygen. She feels faint, dizzy, and though she wants to fight she can barely breathe.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, pulling her up into his arms. 

She is a mermaid, a princess of the sea, and because their skin is touching she knows the truth of his emotions. She knows he speaks the truth, and so she closes her eyes and cowers against his chest, praying to the ocean that she'll be back in the water soon.


	2. The Main Attraction

Her delicate lungs are burning by the time he drops her into the tank below deck. The water within is stagnant and warm and she can taste the dying algae as it filters through her system. In the dark water no one can see her crying, slumped against the side of the tank, wondering how long it will be until her father realizes she’s gone. She can’t remember the last time she actually felt helpless, seeing no way out. Her father has instilled in her a deep sense of pride and courage and nothing has ever defeated her. Perhaps this is why she felt safe approaching the boat. Perhaps this is why she thought the white haired man would never hurt her. A single pretty face had caused her forget all she’d learned about the cruelty of humans. And now she was alone.

Draco calls out to her as she sinks to the bottom of the dark tank, although calling her Miss seems grossly inappropriate for a creature of her power and majesty. The tank itself is abhorrent, inhumane. She’s trapped in the darkness in a box no larger than a closet. It was everything in him not to let her go, to pull her up from the bottom and throw her back overboard. The sight of her wide, sea green eyes filled with horror, then anger, had tightened his heart. He can hear her muffled screaming through the water, ominous and painful. Only an hour earlier she had been smiling at him and it had warmed him through, but now he knows, she blames him for her captivity.

A couple of dead Mackerel splash into the tank and Draco sees Riddle standing behind him.

“What’s this?” Draco asks, watching the striped silvery fish float on the surface, their wide dead eyes too familiar to him.

“Food. She’s got to eat if we’re going to put her on show, boy.”

“How do you know she eats mackerel?” Draco is still staring down into the tank hoping she’ll come up, if only to throw the fish into Riddle’s face. A quick flash of white silver, like the fish's belly lets him know she's still hiding.

“She’ll eat what we give her or she’ll starve.”

Draco chooses not to point out the futility of starving her, as you can't put a dead mermaid on display, but shivers at the knowledge that Riddle probably would. The two stand in silence for a moment and Draco considers different ways to kill him. There are deadly curses that he’s learned in his studies, forbidden magic; two words could be uttered and his master would fall over dead. But it was also a way to guarantee his imprisonment if he were ever found.

“Fix this tank,” Riddle says, knocking on the wooden walls. “No one can see those fish titties through wood. Make sure it’s big enough for her to turn, flip. She’s our main attraction boy, she’s got to look good.”

She stays at the bottom of the tank for what seems like days, the slight bioluminescence of her tail allowing her to see her surroundings, only to find that there’s nothing there. Occasionally the white haired man looks down through the green, his face rippling and wavering like a dream as he peers down at her with concern. When the sunlight finally dims and she assumes the men are asleep she pushes herself to the surface and looks at her surroundings, throwing the stinking dead mackerel on the floor in disgust. The white haired man is in his hammock, a tiny white land animal sleeping on his bare chest, one of his lean arms hanging off the side as he swings back and forth with the waves. A screech tears through the quiet and she sees a cage to her right containing a brilliant red and orange bird, staring at her with a penetrating gaze. Beside it is a porthole…only a few lengths from her prison. Could she jump out and pull herself free?

“Hello.”

She turns back to the hammock to see that the white haired man is awake now, pulling himself up to stand, never taking his eyes off hers. When he takes a step towards her she ducks down into the water, only her eyes above the surface, mostly to hide her shaking. Her father has always taught her to acknowledge her fear but not show it. She wants to be angry with the white haired man, but his eyes seem kind and he holds his hands up as if in surrender.

Draco is adept at taming, placating, even befriending animals, cryptids and magical beasts; but he’s been taught all his life to hide from other humans, not to give his name or make eye contact. His father, what he can remember of him, taught him to be afraid, to save his pride for when he was safe and his courage for when his life depended on it. He was warned by his father to never reveal who he really is to another human. Of course this is no human. She is something far more magnificent. Her skin is pale with a milky blue cast like the light of a full moon, with a few silver freckles dotting her nose. Looking at her when she was trapped in Riddles’ net, she’d scowled at him with pale pink lips and eyes the color of an angry sea, framed by white lashes and brows. Her face is calmer now, almost stoic, but still beautiful.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, taking another step closer to the tank.

It doesn’t even occur to him that he is indecent, only wearing a pair of old work pants that hang low on his narrow hips, his feet bare, his hair rumpled and hanging in his eyes. If his appearance offends her she makes no indication, only tipping her head to the side to regard him, to show she is listening.

She wants to be angry, but he said he was sorry.

“Do you understand me?” He asks, now stepping close enough that he can press a palm to the side of the tank, damp and dripping where the water is slowly leaking out.

She nods and blinks, emerging a bit more from the dark water.

“I’m Draco.”

She nods again and he smiles.

“Let’s try and improve these conditions,” he says, grabbing his wand, and she disappears beneath the surface again with a flash of her tail and a wave of water splashing out onto the floor.

Hermione retreats to the bottom of the tank, her eyes trained above, watching for Draco. He seems safe when his hands are empty but she isn’t sure about the stick he is holding. The mermen beneath the waves use spears and daggers hewn from coral and wood from sunken ships. She’s seen them kill. Perhaps this stick Draco holds is a weapon as well. Then he is standing right above her, peering down with his arm outstretched, a bright blue light emerging from the end of the stick. She can hear his voice muffled through the water and she curls further into herself, afraid of what his powers might be. Then, in a matter of seconds her tank transforms and fills with light. The walls become clear glass and they expand, giving her just enough room to lay flat, her tail outstretched, fins unfurled and tall enough that she can float upright, still completely submerged. Moving with caution she glides up to the surface, looking him in the eye. He’s smiling at what he’s done.

“That’s much better, isn’t it?” he asks. "I mean, considering."

She nods, taking in the silver blue of his eyes, the dip of his cupid’s bow and angle of his jaw. How nice hair looks when it’s dry! She’s tempted to touch it. His smile is wide and infectious. She wants to be angry, but he’s the most beautiful human she’s ever seen. And so instead, she smiles back and says.

“Yes, much better. Thank you.”

Draco feels his heart flutter at the sight of her smile, the way her eyes glitter like the ocean’s surface on a sunny day. There’s even a bit of a lavender blush in her cheeks. He can see her whole body now, stretched long, bobbing in the water. Her tail is slim with silver green scales and diaphanous fins fluttering as she floats in place. Her hair is long, the color of ice on the winter sea, twisted into braids run through with seaweed, decorated with white shells. For the first time he notices the thin, delicate gills on the sides of her throat, opening and closing as she watches him. His eyes trail down and he notices her breasts are bare, obscured by her hair but it makes his cheeks heat just the same. He will create something for her to wear, even if only during exhibition days, lest her nudity starts a riot.

He sees the mackerel on the floor and laughs.

“What’s your name?” He asks, picking up the fish and tossing them to the Phoenix now chattering on the other side of the room.

“Hermione,” she says, lifting her chin. “I’m the eldest daughter of King Triton.”

Her voice is low and soothing, a slow cadence like the sound of waves lapping on the shore in the night. He nods in acknowledgement and his smile quickly fades. Tiggy climbs up his leg and curls around his arm.

“I’m sorry,” Draco says, unable to meet her eye, stroking the ferret's back instead. “I don’t…it wasn’t my choice to trap you. I’m…”

“A prisoner?” She asks, her eyes wide. Her tail twitches.

Draco snorts in response and steps away to begin his morning chores, pulling the coverings from the exhibits, feeding the plants and animals. Her assessment isn’t too far off.

“You could say that. I’m…I don’t have a family. Mr. Riddle took me in, but I have to work for him in return, doing whatever he asks. I can’t go back to London. It's not...safe.”

In his haste to begin his work he’d forgotten to put on a shirt and now she sees the garish black mark on his arm when he reaches out to feed the pixies. There are creatures beneath the surface who wear magical runes and markings on their flesh to enhance their powers or ward off evil, but she’s never seen a symbol like this one: a serpent twisting from the mouth of a skull.

“Does that give you your power?” She asks, moving to the edge of the tank.

Draco looks up to see her pointing to his forearm and his face blushes a deep red. He turns away from her.

“N..no. No,” he says, dropping the box of food he had been distributing and bending down to gather up the mess. “Sorry. I can’t…I have to…”

“Draco,” she says, stopping him before he can leave the room, before she’s alone again. He turns to look at her but holds his arm behind his back. “When will he let me go?”

Draco frowns and leaves the room without a word.

He usually makes a habit of being in the crow’s nest with his books when the customers come. He doesn’t like the way they gawk and point, taunting the creatures with their walking sticks, offering them food and drawing it back at the last minute, yelling to wake them up, laughing at their frustration. They are entertained by their own cruelty, how they can manipulate the stupid mute beasts.

But now that Hermione is on display, he stays below deck, his arms well covered, always lurking near to her tank, warning guests not to touch or tease or get to close, presenting her as a powerful witch of the ocean; their greatest fear. A colorful sign hangs over her reading THE PRINCESS OF TRITON - GENUINE MERMAID

“Is she a siren?” A young man asks.

He’s a sailor in uniform on leave from the Queen’s Navy. Draco can see that he’s drawn to her, just like everyone else who crowds at the entrance long before Riddle opens the doors. Word of the mermaid has spread like wildfire and she has brought in bags of gold in only a week. A short time indeed, but still Draco can see that the colors in her tail and translucent fins are beginning to fade, her skin dull. When he brings her cockles for her breakfast he sees flecks of silver sunk to the bottom: scales shedding away. She isn’t meant to be in captivity. It’s a decay he knows all too well.

Before he can answer the sailor as to his query however, Hermione bursts through the surface, spitting a stream of icy water onto the young man, her eyes burning with a fury that takes Draco's breath away.

“A siren?” She hisses, glaring at them both. “Do I look like a gray, fanged hag? A siren! How dare you. I am the Princess of The Seas. I am more than you will ever be…sir.”

Draco and the sailor both look on in awe as she twists back down to the bottom, slapping her tail hard enough to soak them both through.

Tom Riddle comes down at the end of the day when Draco is escorting the final guests off the ship, collecting their coins and pulling in the gangplank. He is dressed all in black and drinking from a dark bottle. He smells like rot and anger and stalks towards her with burning eyes.

“You cost me three gold coins today, you sodding bitch!”

He pulls her halfway from the water by her hair and she squeals in pain, feeling it tear from her scalp. He’s a smart enough man to know that exposing her gills puts her life in his hands and he takes advantage of it.

“Draco! Help!” She screams, but her words are weak, nothing more than puffs of air and her lungs ache, her gills dry, gaping.

Riddle clamps a greasy, acrid hand over her mouth and holds her close.

“You behave yourself around my customers, girl or I’ll tie a weight around your neck to keep you under and have my wizard seal your mouth shut. Do you understand me? All you have to do is swim pretty, flash those little jubblies every once in a while and you’ll get along just fine. Yeah? You hear me?” he asks, shaking her violently.

She hears Draco’s feet thumping down the stairs and Riddle releases her hair, letting her drop back into the water.

“Everything alright?” Draco asks, looking at the water puddled on the floor, and still turbulent in the tank itself.

She watches from the corner, hidden beneath the surface, her eyes wide, scalp stinging with pain. The two men talk, but she can’t make out the words as they keep moving, their backs to her. Riddle slaps the back of Draco’s head as he leaves the room and the young man does nothing to retaliate, only frowning and clenching his fists. She wants to crack through the glass and strangle the Captain, crush his ribs with her tail. One touch of her hand in the ocean and she could spin up a whirlpool to sink his wretched ship and every cursed object in it. All she needs is to break free.


	3. Decay

“Can all humans use wands? I’ve only ever seen a few men on ships, but I’ve never seen them do magic. I didn’t know humans had magic.”

Her only chance at escape is to befriend Draco, to convince him to use his wand to put her back in the sea. But it’s painfully clear that he is well under the thumb of his Master, Tom Riddle, a prisoner of sorts just like herself. But he isn’t locked in a cage.

“No,” he says as he sweeps up after the last of the days’ visitors. “I’m…I’m a wizard. Different than a regular human…I guess just like you’re a mermaid. We’re different…creatures.”

She wrinkles her nose at the designation but understands what he means. And yet for someone who is magical, for someone with amazing abilities such as his it seems more like a burden than a blessing to him. In the sea the mages and dark sorcerers are celebrated if not feared for the strength of their power.

“Riddle can’t do the things you can. He wouldn't even have this ship if it weren't for you, would he?” she says, leaning on her forearms to watch him work. She flicks her tail around just to keep it nimble. She hasn’t had a good, deep swim in nearly a week. "His cruelty is based on fear and jealousy. He needs you."

Draco shrugs his response, but also nods.

“He does. But if I don’t do what he says…”

“You could just leave…we both could leave,” she whispers. “I’ve seen what you do with that wand…you could drop me right back in the sea and you could take his gold and find your own adventure.” She narrows her eyes, an evil grin spreading across her lips. She's always been one with an appetite for revenge. "I could sink this ship...pull up a tidal wave and the whole..."

Draco stops what he’s doing and stares at her as if she’s stabbed him through. There’s no way she could have known that he dreams of doing just that. Long before Hermione was even on board he had devised ways of disappearing, perhaps traveling to Germany where magical humans were readily accepted, well out of the clutches of the puritanical English. He's dreamt of setting all the creatures free both magical and mundane and leaving the ship in flames. She's so excited, devising her plans, talking a mile a minute, but he has to stop her.

“This is why,” he says, pushing up the sleeve of his black shirt.

The mark is startling every time she sees it, the contrast to his alabaster skin, the garish image of the serpent and the skull. She’s seen flashes of it, but never thought to ask about its power.

“The humans here don’t like people who are different,” he spits, his voice thick with bitterness. “People with magical abilities, wizards and witches are marked with this on their seventh birthday. Burnt into my skin as a punishment for being born the way I am.”

Hermione covers her mouth with her hand, unsure if she’s going to vomit or scream. She’s never heard of something so brutal. There is no fire beneath the surface, but there are stinging, burning corals and jellyfish…there are painful ways to brand the flesh, but only the strongest warriors or worst criminals take part in it. She can’t even imagine imparting that harm on a child.

“Draco you can’t stay here," she whispers in horror. "You can’t…”

“If I leave I’ll be on the run for the rest of my life, Hermione. The first person who sees this mark will turn me in. They’ll find any reason they can to imprison me, torture me…hang me…that’s how I lost my parents. I don't have anyone. There's no one looking for me, no one who would fight for me. I'm alone,” he says, slipping a dish of food into the cage of pixies. “Oh, I found these for you,” he adds, dropping a handful of razor clams into her tank.

She told him days ago that they were a delicacy in her father’s house…served only on special occasions. He remembered. She dips below the surface and cracks them open to eat the sweet, delicate flesh inside. Draco sits in his hammock eating a meal that looks far too small for an adult human…crust of bread, a single slice of dried meat and some cheese. He gives part of the cheese to his ferret, Tiggy. Everyone on this ship comes before him.

“Thank you,” she says, coming back up to the surface, leaning on the edge to watch him stroke the ferret's fur.

“You’re welcome. I thought you’d like a little taste of home,” he says, before extinguishing the tiny oil lamp swinging above his bed. "I can't imagine what it would be like, knowing someone was waiting for me." The room is dark, and he faces away from her to sleep.

The ship travels further inland, the sea becoming calmer and narrower as they sail closer to London, further from her home outside Dover, until finally they’re docked in Gravesend. The villages are larger and the people have more money and Draco knows there is a wizarding community here, exiled from London, hiding from those that would hunt them. He looks forward to docking here every year as he finally finds respite deep within the town.

Word spreads fast about _The Slytherin's_ _Genuine Mermaid_ and there are more and more visitors waiting for hours outside the ship. Naturally, Riddle doubles the price of admission but it doesn’t make a difference; they come out in droves. Draco lets them in ten people at a time, for twenty minutes. They’re free to explore the other exhibits for as long as they like, but the Mermaid…The Princess of Triton (as the sign above her says) is alone in the main room below deck; the Pixies and Chimera and Phoenix moved somewhere else during the day.

He stands by her tank like a guard, dressed all in black, his arms folded behind back to conceal his wand, which he holds onto for emergencies. There are some visitors he doesn’t mind: the children, wide eyed and filled with wonder, little girls completely enamored with her beauty, making silent wishes that they could be a mermaid one day; the matronly women who look at her with pity, seeing the fear in her face, the dull, shedding scales of her powerful tail. These are the people who understand. Still, he has to tell himself that these are the same people who hung his father in the town square, who think he is an abomination. Two men stand in front of the tank, arms crossed over their chests as if challenging her very existence. One whispers to the other and they laugh uproariously. Draco narrows his eyes at them and they grin right back.

“Oi, you take care of this bird?” One of them asks, nodding in her direction.

“I do,” Draco says, catching her gaze. The water in her tank is taking on a murky cast, green and thick.

“Where’s her cunt?” The other asks, stifling a laugh.

“How they fuck, mate?” The first one adds. Then, turning back to the tank he leans in and speaks louder. “How do you fuck girl?”

The men laugh uproariously and she looks at Draco, who stands silently, his mouth in a deep frown, his eyes molten silver, burning with rage. They are both gagged by Riddle’s threats. Draco is silenced by his mark. But when she catches his eye again, she sees his lips moving, his twitching, moving almost imperceptibly. She curls back into the corner and the men stop laughing, holding their stomachs, their faces going white.

“Are you feeling ill?” Draco asks, his voice polite and even. “Perhaps you need some fresh air?”

One man covers his mouth with his hand and the two men run from the room. Draco turns his head to Hermione and gives her a tiny nod and a smile.

"It's a pity how quickly sea sickness can come on," he says, and the two of them laugh when they're alone.

At night, when he can’t sleep, they talk. Draco lays on his back in his hammock, eyes wide as she tells him stories about her life below the surface, the spacious palace her father rules from. She tells him how she can control the sea, swirling the water into a towering water spout or rendering it perfectly still, like a block of ice. 

"I've always loved to swim," he says, looking out the porthole that he's transfigured into a larger window, giving Hermione a better view of the sea. She isn't sure if her heart aches from joy or sadness, but just seeing the moon glittering on the waves is calming. "It's the one thing I can thank Riddle for. I had never even seen the ocean when he found me, but the first time I set foot in the water, the first time I dove under and felt the silence, the expanse of it all...I was in love. I'm only ever happy if I'm near the sea."

When there are no visitors Draco brings the other exhibits to her tank so she can see them up close, explaining how he’s transfigured them, what they originally were. He holds up Tiggy so she can reach her hand out to pet his silky fur. She laughs when his whiskers tickle her arm.

Every few days he takes half of the water from her tank in buckets, replacing it with cool, clean seawater and she thanks him with a wide smile…a rare gift for someone in her condition. When she turns and flips, swimming to the bottom he sees that more scales have fallen from her tail, the purply iridescence fading entirely. All of the seaweed in her hair is dark and dead. She's pulled most of it out and thrown it on the floor.

“What’s happening to you?” He asks, fishing the scales from the water and holding them in his palm.

They glitter like jewels. She frowns at him, disgusted at how he’s actually holding a piece of her, a part of her body. And yet he looks at them with such sadness and a sort of reverence that she can’t stay mad.

“Decay,” she says. “I’ve never been in captivity before. I’ve never lived in the same exact water for weeks at a time, eating the same things. There are corals and seaweeds that we draw our power from. I have nothing in this tank but myself.”

Draco says nothing, the guilt running through his gut like fire. He looks out the porthole at the vast black sea, the thin, fragile crescent moon low in the sky. Something clicks in his brain, but she distracts him.

“It’s happening to you, too,” she says. “I can see it in your eyes.” She swims to the edge of the tank and reaches out her hand, pale and dripping. He sees a delicate webbing between the fingers.

When he touches them her lips turn down into a frown. He tucks a lock of her wet, shining hair behind her ear to better see the beautiful sea green of her eyes, but after a moment she closes them, shaking her head and pulling her hand back as if she's been burnt.

“I can feel it,” she says. “You have to get me out Draco. You have to get yourself out. This ship is a tomb. You have to find a way.”

Riddle gives Draco one day to himself every two weeks. In the past he would spend it wandering the shore of whatever town they were in, beachcombing and wading in the shallows. In the heat of summer he would swim if he could find a secluded beach, far from the docks where his arm was sure to be hidden. When he swam he felt a bit of the freedom and optimism that he knew he was missing; a lightness in his heart that he always felt when he was away from the ship or under the waves.

Although it was dangerous, he always found ways to practice his magic, to keep his mind sharp by summoning fire or brewing potions with the few ingredients he could find. But now he has a mission and time is running out to accomplish it. He bundles himself into his long black robes and silver scarf, pulling the hood of his cloak over his head as he disembarks, headed for the darkest part of Gravesend.

He enters the shadowy pub and heads to the bar with his head bowed, glancing over his shoulder as he waits for the barkeep. As inconspicuous as he tries to be, he has been recognized when roaming the streets of London…the boy who works for Riddle. With his white hair and silver eyes it’s hard to escape notice unless he keeps himself under wraps. Today there are a handful of people in the pub, huddled in the corners, bundled up just like him, their arms well covered, faces hidden. This is how they are all forced to live, all of them in danger of being discovered. But he’s been burned enough that he doesn’t even trust other wizards at this point. He only has himself.

“How can I help you?” The barkeep asks, leaning in with his voice low.

“Have you seen a stray dog?” Draco asks, looking into his eyes. “White, with black markings.”

The barkeep nods. The door across the room opens and Draco heads into the basement of the dark, secluded pub to find the information he needs.

Riddle throws bits of chopped fish into her tank, the blood blooming rusty clouds in the water as they sink. A fresh kill.

“Where’s Draco?” She asks, gliding to the surface. If she can help it she avoids speaking to her captor, but now she’s worried that her only chance at survival is gone.

“How should I know? ‘S his day off, probably in town getting his willie wet.” Riddle says, grinning wide, knowing the mermaid is uncomfortable, even if she doesn’t full understand what he’s talking about.

“How long will you keep me here?” She dares to ask, gripping the sides of the tank to hide her shaking hands, hoping he can’t hear how hard her heart is beating. “How long will you be in this part of the sea? You know my father is searching for me.”

“Not doing a very good job now, is he?” Riddle sticks his finger into the cage of pixies and they snap and scream, yelling what can only be obscenities in their language. One of them bites him and he draws back, giving the cage a hard rattle before walking away. “There’s only three ships in harbor here. Where else is there to look for his little girl?”

She says nothing, but as she sinks down to the floor of her prison, she knows he’s right. Her father is probably searching the vast, limitless sea, not the world above it. He’s made her promise never to get entangled in men’s affairs, not to speak to or meddle with the evilness of humans.

Riddle laughs uproariously and leaves her alone. The pixies are giggling, whispering in each other’s ears. The sun is starting to set and she hasn’t seen Draco in hours.

When she wakes the next morning Draco is on the floor, books and scrolls spread out around him as the sun seeps in through the portholes. His hair is a mess, ink smeared across his cheek as he writes something in a small black book. Next to him is a chart of the night sky and a chart with phases of the moon. Hermione watches him for some time before the Phoenix squawks at the rising sun and startles him from his studies.

“Hermione,” he says, looking up at her, his eyes as bright as his smile. “I think I’ve found it. I’ve found a way for us to escape.”

The crowds are huge and unruly, standing too close to her tank, yelling and pounding on the glass until Draco threatens to throw them out. Men ogle her body, leering and commenting on what they like. They throw gold coins into the water demanding she do tricks. She can see Draco’s eyes widen at the sight of the coins and so she twists and flips, jumping out of the tank and diving back down, splashing the crowd with the musty old water before hiding the coins beneath the fin of her tail. Her spirits are high and she’s willing to put up with the gawking, grinning humans for just a while longer. Draco told her that he’d gone into town to research some spells…old spells, ancient magic. He's found a way to break her free of the tank, a way that they both can break away from Tom Riddle and find a way to get her back to the shores at Dover. It's drastic, and even dangerous, but she trusts that it will work.

Draco can turn her human.

She looks at the people standing around her tank, their long legs, and slim, unmarred necks. They have creamy, peach tinged skin and hair the color of wooden ships. All her life she’s wanted to know what it’s like above the water; the animals and plants, the smells and tastes. She can’t even imagine what it’s like to breathe air, to run, to feel the sun on her skin. It won’t take long, and it won’t be forever, just long enough for them to get back to her home. She only has to make it through one more day of this humiliation, one more day of their eyes, one more day in this muck, and she’ll be finally be free.

He waits until after dark to start the ritual, when Riddle is drunk, passed out in his hammock on the other side of the ship. He doesn’t like to be anywhere near the exhibits. He’s claimed that he’s not afraid of the magical creatures so much as disgusted by them; but Draco has seen how he cowers away from the phoenix, how he won’t go near the chimera, avoiding its cage completely. No words are needed; Draco knows his master feels the same way about him. The only family he's had for ten years sees him as a freak, a cursed creature...a necessary evil. Leaving with Hermione will mean the end of the Slytherin, the end of Riddle, and Draco will have nowhere to turn…but for a while he’ll have Hermione and that will be enough.

And if he plays his cards right, he could have her forever.


	4. Thirst

The sky is clear and filled with light from the waxing gibbous moon and he reviews the words of the spell one last time before sprinkling a mixture of dried herbs and hawthorne ash into the water of her tank. Hermione is cowering in the corner, whispering quiet words of prayer to the deities that protect all the creatures of the sea. She has only known Draco for a short time but still has decided to trust him. As he pours the last of the ritual ingredients into her prison he smiles. It’s small, but confident. Everything will be ok.

The moon comes out from behind a cloud and he begins to speak in a language she’s never heard, the words rhythmic and musical, his voice rising and lowering in pitch as he moves his wand in distinct, detailed patterns. With a flick of his wrist a glow of golden light pours from the end of it and seeps into the water like a heavy oil, spreading slowly, sinking to the bottom in a dense cloud.

“Just be still,” he tells her. “It will only be a moment….I think.”

Draco grips his wand with white knuckles. She’s writhing in pain as the light glows brighter, filling and encasing her body, the water churning until he can’t see her through the all the commotion. The moon is hidden again and the room goes dark.

She nods from under the water and lets the light wind around her tail, weaving through her arms and wrapping around her stomach. Tendrils of light twist and creep over her skin and into her gills. A warm energy spreads inside her, through her blood, blooming behind her heart and she opens her mouth to scream.

She bursts through the surface of the water, gasping and choking for breath, her eyes wide with terror as she clings to the edge of the tank, gasping for air through her open mouth.

Brown eyes. He’d been prepared for the spell to split her tail into two legs, to give her lungs and close the delicate silvery gills on her throat. What he wasn’t prepared for are the streaks of curling toffee colored hair that run through her silvery blue locks. Her eyes, once a watery sea green are the color of chestnuts, glittering with tears, dark eyelashes dripping with old seawater. She flails in the tank, kicking her weak legs and Draco reaches for her, pulling her from out onto the floor. There are still faint blue translucent scales on her legs in patches, still webs between her toes, and the string of razor clam shells he collected for her is still woven into her hair.

“It…it worked…” she stutters, but he can’t tell if she’s happy or sad.

She _did _ask him to perform the spell after all, to set her free from this circus, and for his own selfish reasons he was happy to do so. And yet to change her from some magnificent, magical creature into…this…a human, flawed and bland and…landlocked. Who would ever ask for such a thing? She will never see her family again if she goes through with the final ritual…if she chooses to remain with him. If she makes this choice, he will be all that she has; and it sends a dark and secret thrill through his blood, to be her hero, her provider, to have someone to rely on him. But he can see on her face that she isn’t quite sure she feels the same. Her legs are wobbling and she slides down to the floor, leaning against the tank.

“It did. But Hermione…I promise you that it’s not permanent,” he says, quickly taking off his cloak and wrapping it around her shivering, naked body. He glances out the porthole at the night sky, at the white and shining moon. “Not yet at least. You have time to decide,” he adds. “But for now, we need to leave.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere. Off this boat. If Riddle finds what I’ve done…what I’ve done to _you_…”

He’d packed a satchel for them before performing the spell, with some food and clothes, blankets and his spellbooks. The coins that he’d received from sympathetic customers over the years, particularly when he was a pale, drawn little boy in rags, were enough that he could perhaps book a night at an inn, or a boat to the mainland of Europe. That is, if she decides to go with him. Like he said, she has time.

Draco places Tilly in a small leather pouch that he wears slung across his chest and gives Hermione a simple black gown that he transfigured from one of his old shirts. It looks awkward and heavy on her lithe, natural body and she feels trapped within the fabric, like being caught in a thicket of seaweed, but she doesn’t complain, sensing the frantic energy in her companion. He helps her to wind her waist long hair into a braid that he twists into a knot at the nape of her neck, securing it with bits of twine. When he stands in front of her to assess his work she places a hand on his forearm and feels waves of anxiety mingled with optimism and excitement. She knows he’s wanted to leave the Slythern for some time. Her own mind races with dozens emotions, too many to name. If her father knew she’d made such a decision he’d be heartbroken; to know that she gave up her identity, her lifeblood, everything that she knows to help a human being or just to galavant off and see a different world would be too much for him to bear.

The sky is filled with low lying clouds, the wind whipping up the surface of the sea, misting their faces as he guides her off the ship in the cold fog of early morning. Her steps are slow and careful, like a toddler first pulling themselves upright and he holds a finger to his lips in a signal to be quiet.

“Come on then,” he says, holding out his hand. “We’ll head into the village for a few supplies, then out to the forest. It’s safest there.”

She nods, stumbling along on her new legs, hiding her disappointment at not being able to stop and drink in the amazing sights: her first tree, her first horse sleeping while hitched to a post outside a pub. She’s never felt dry sand or felt it slip through her fingers, never drank wine or heard human music yet Draco simply drags her down the dirt path without stopping. She can feel his pounding heart, the confusion and stress of jumbled thoughts through their joined hands yet she holds on for dear life. Draco is all she has.

By the time they reach the heart of the village the sky is peachy with sunrise. Chickens run through the streets while a woman draws up water through a hole in the ground.

“May I fill my jug from this well?” He asks. “We’re traveling through and she’s quite thirsty.”

Hermione has never known thirst; the pain of a dry throat from prolonged breathing, the exhaustion of constant walking, cracked lips and a dizzy head. This isn’t what she expected from humanity. The woman smiles at her and nods at Draco, balancing her full bucket on her hip.

“Of course, of course. Tavern’s over there on the corner if you need food for your trip. And the bakery should be open soon. Henry always gets—“

She stops talking, her eyes wide with fear, staring at Draco. Hermione follows the direction of her gaze and sees that his left forearm is exposed. The mark he hates so much, the warning to all that he is a wizard. Draco pulls the water up and realizes what’s happened. His face flushes scarlet and he drops the bucket on the cobblestones. Hermione blinks, almost sure that he's transformed back into a child, small and trembling, holding out his shaking hands in supplication.

“I’m so sorry ma’am. I—“

“Don’t!” She screams. “Don’t you hex me! You..you..snake!”

Hermione watches Draco cower away from the woman, shame radiating off of him in waves. She doesn’t even need to touch him to know he is mortified. The woman approaches Hermione and touches her arm.

“Are you OK dear? Is he…are you under a spell of some sort?”

Hermione can feel her disgust, wariness and superiority and she resists the urge to fling the awful woman into the well.

“Come on Draco,” she says, shaking loose of the woman and threading her arm through his elbow. “We’ll find water somewhere else.”

From that moment on he is quiet and withdrawn. He walks slower, stroking Tiggy’s head with one finger as they make their way into the forest. After filling their water jug in a fast flowing creek he guides her along the trail without a word until they come upon a clearing. The sun is bright on the grass, highlighting a little cluster of brightly colored mushrooms. Draco crouches down and snaps one off, holding it up to her wide eyes.

“These are toadstools – mushrooms,” he says. “A kind of, well, a plant I guess. A fungus. I use them in potions and sometimes in spells.”

She reaches a finger out and strokes the spongy red surface, smiling at the velvety texture. He draws it back from her hand.

“I’m telling you this because it’s deadly. If ever…if you’re ever away from me, and you’re looking for things to eat…these can look very tempting but one bite will kill you. Or maybe it won't...I don't...I'm..."

Her eyes go wide and he immediately regrets opening his mouth. His first lesson about life on the land is how everything is waiting to kill you. She’s frowning at the mushroom and he throws it into the underbrush.

“Sorry. Merlin, I’m sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m a terrible…teacher. I just…I don’t even know where to begin. I mean…there’s so much…”

“So what _is_ something I could eat?” She asks, smiling.

She wants him to smile again. She doesn’t like feeling his sadness, his regret. When he doesn’t answer she wanders into the clearing, running her fingers over the bark of a tall ash tree, the small, rough leaves of a plum bush.

“Well, you could eat those, if they’re ripe,” he says, reaching out to pull off one of the little purple fruits. “Here,”

He takes a bite of it and juice drips down his chin. His lips are shiny and he smiles as he hands it out for her to try, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. The drop of juice runs down the length of his neck, a glistening trail disappearing into his shirt and she feels a heavy heat in her belly that she writes off as hunger. The fruit is sweet and juicy and she eats three whole plums before flopping down on the ground, the exhaustion of their hike finally catching up with her.

“Tell me more things,” she says, squinting up at the sky, up through the branches of emerald leaves. “Those animals whistling...”

“The birds? That’s a chaffinch singing,” he said. “They’re everywhere. You may actually grow tired of it.”

“It's beautiful,” she says, closing her eyes.

Her hair, now even more brown than before, is the color of deep, richly steeped tea in the sunlight. It looks soft as silk and he resists the urge to stroke it, to touch the skin of her arm, now a bit golden from exposure to the sun. The darker cast suits her.

“Beautiful,” he says, but her eyes are still closed.

They spend the afternoon wandering the forest, Draco telling her about the animals and plants, identifying different bird songs that she mimics back at him. She jumps and giggles at the sight of a rabbit and he cracks open walnuts for her to eat. As the sun goes down he gathers up thick branches and balances them into a small shelter that he easily transfigures into a rustic, makeshift cabin, no bigger than the tiny room he slept in below deck on the Slytherin, each of them with a blanket of their own.

“Are you tired?” He asks, starting a small fire that she stares at with a slack jaw, her eyes glowing with fascination. She watches his hands as he heats water in a pot and makes them each a cup of tea; the whole thing like a magical ritual in itself.

“Yes, but I hardly want to sleep," she says, sipping the warm, flowery tasting drink. "There’s so much more to see.”

The wind kicks up and she shivers. Draco pulls her blanket from the shelter and wraps her in it, leaving his arm around her for longer than is entirely necessary and he tells himself its for warmth. She rests her head on his shoulder, her eyelids heavy. It’s hard to believe she’s only been on land for a day.

“You have time,” he whispers, stroking the length of her arm, looking up at the clouds racing over the moon. “There’s still plenty of time.”

When Draco wakes he finds her near the creek, her hand in the water feeling it rush over the stones and through her fingers. She still has the blanket wrapped around her shoulders and there’s a bit of pink in her cheeks from the chill in the air. She’s frowning.

“We need to eat, something more than plums and nuts,” he says, helping her to her feet. “And we should find a bigger shelter.”

“Watch,” she says, sinking her hand deeper into the water. She flutters her two middle fingers and a small school of shad swim to her, their bellies flashing silver in the morning light.

“Do you…can you speak to them?” He asks, his eyes wide with amazement. It’s never occurred to him that she would have powers and abilities to rival his own. But she only laughs.

“Well, it’s not as if I can ask them about their day,” she says, running her fingers over the backs of the little fish before sending them on their way. “But I can…communicate with them. They know if there’s danger and I can tell how they’re feeling. Just like you.”

“What?” Draco stands away from the bank of the stream. “What do you mean?”

When she stands she lets the blanket fall and the dress he’d made for her slips from her shoulder, exposing the dip and shadow of her collarbone. Her hair is nearly completely brown now, only a few streaks of the white blue running through it like ribbons and it flutters in the breeze. He makes a note to buy her a brush, a comb with jewels on it to tuck into the waves, sweeping them up and off her neck.

“When I touch you, or anyone,” she says, putting a hand on his forearm. "I can feel you." She touches the mark on his skin as if it isn’t abhorrent, as if it doesn’t frighten her. But she feels him tense when she does it. “Not your specific thoughts, but your feelings. Fear or Pride or…” she looks up into Draco’s eyes, her mouth fallen open, her cheeks a bit more flushed than before. This last emotion is something new, something she’s not familiar with. It rumbles through her blood like a high tumbling wave, hot like the sun in shallow tide pools. “or…anything you’re…feeling.”

She pulls her hand away and Draco pulls down his sleeve, clearing his throat.

“Let’s walk on a bit,” he says, pulling his satchel over his shoulder. “There’s so much more to see.”


	5. Magic

There is another village…little more than a gathering of houses really, on the other side of the forest and Draco takes her down the main street. He wants her to experience all that humanity can offer so that her decision will be clear. But his purse of gold coins is small and he can’t lavish her with gifts or jewels or exotic foods. Yet when her eyes fall on the stained glass windows of the village church he knows that he’s already given her more than what she’s wished for. This is all she wanted to see. Life.

They walk through the tiny marketplace and she marvels at the different clothes and crafted leather goods, rubbing satin between her fingers, wrapping herself in woolen scarves. A few children are shooting marbles in a patch of dirt beside the tavern and she claps and laughs, asking the rules. One of the little girls gives her a clear glass marble shot through with blue and yellow and Hermione thanks her, holding it up to the sun to throw flashes of color onto the ground. She tries to explain a game that the mermaids play with empty clam shells and sea glass, but Draco pulls her aside and shakes his head, whispering to her in a low voice.

“Don’t talk about those things here,” he says, frowning. “People will start to notice that we’re different.”

“But we’re just talking about games!” she says, laughing. "They're kids."

“It doesn’t matter,” Draco says, frowning, leading her away from the children. “All it takes is one person noticing.”

He’s suddenly grateful for the change in her hair, the darkening of her skin; it’s easier for them to pretend to be ‘normal’. Still, she’s far quieter as they continue their walk, rolling her new marbles between her fingers. They remind her of bubbles rising up from the reefs deep in the sea.

He buys her ale and she laughs at how it fizzes down her throat although she finds the taste bitter. She eats fish, skinned and boned and boiled into a stew. It seems odd to go through all that work to eat a fish but she enjoys the flavors of carrots and potatoes and what Draco tells her are different herbs.

“Was your family like you?” She asks, drinking a second ale. She’s learned enough to not say the word wizard aloud.

He nods while looking into his drink. Mentioning his family actually reminds him more of Riddle than of his parents. His boss will know by now that they’ve gone. The animals onboard will be hungry and angry, their spells coming undone and Draco feels a stab of guilt at not letting them go. At some point he will have to confront Riddle, to end his circus of freaks and frauds once and for all, but he hadn’t thought he’d be considering it so soon.

“I barely remember them. Like remembering parts of a dream,” he says. “I think I look like my father.”

He drums his fingers on the table and Hermione covers his hand with her own. She feels deep, bottomless sadness, conflict and want. His hand is soft and warm and she holds it a bit longer than she should before pulling away.

In the corner, two village women, not much older than Hermione are whispering to one another, their eyebrows raised, staring at the two of them. Draco pulls his own hand from the table and fishes a few gold coins from his pouch, leaving them on the table.

“Come on,” he says. “We should go back and find better shelter.”

“Lovely dress,” one of the women says as they walk by their table. Hermione feels a wave of anger flow through him, but she still smiles at the stranger.

“Thank you very much,” she says.

The women burst into laughter, one reaching out to touch her hair, her eyebrows raised in horror.

“Are these…weeds in your hair?” Both women laugh and retreat to the bar, talking again behind their hands and Hermione feels her cheeks burning with humiliation.

Draco leads her outside, gripping her hand tightly, having to nearly bite off his tongue to keep from hexing the two barmaids.

“They were teasing me,” she says, her brow furrowed; not in anger but sadness and confusion. “Why would they do that?”

She looks down at her dress, smoothing it with her palms and Draco pulls her out of the tavern and back towards the marketplace where he’d seen a seamstress earlier. He should have known better than to try and transfigure a dress for a young lady; a beautiful young lady with a body like a goddess...and he tried to dress her in what looks like sackcloth.

“Come on, we’re going to fix everything. They won’t laugh at you again.”

The seamstress is all too happy to alter one of her dresses, a periwinkle colored gown, to fit Hermione’s body, accentuating her curves and highlighting the creamy tone of her skin. Draco gives the woman most of his gold to add ribbons and lace trim, a criss cross pattern down the front, a beautiful apron and a pair of black leather shoes that pinch her feet. Hermione doesn’t tell him that the black dress was more comfortable because when he takes her hand again, he feels more at peace and she wants him to be happy. Its good to see him smiling as they make their way back to the woods.

She’s fascinated by the fire he builds; how the flames lick up into the sky, releasing snaps and sparks as they eat up the wood he feeds to it. She likes the golden glow it casts on his skin when the sun goes behind the trees. He builds a better shelter, transfiguring thick branches and piles of rocks into a tiny round hut. Tiggy sits on her shoulder while he works and she feeds him pieces of wild plum and bits of bread.

The fire dies and the forest goes quiet as the moon comes out. Draco is off looking for berries and she sits on a rock, running her fingers over the satin skirt of her dress. He told her he would buy her a dozen dresses…after.

_“After what?”_

But he didn’t say.

She’s pondering his words when she hears a branch snap, movement in the brush behind her.

“Draco?”

He doesn’t answer. Silence falls again and she hears the voice of what he called an _owl_, low and ominous in the trees. She stands and puts Tiggy in the satchel, hiding him in the shelter. Another branch snaps and she’s shaking so hard that her teeth rattle together. He’s left her alone with no way to defend herself and she’s worried now that Riddle has found them, or the women from the village with their sneering faces, or the woman from the well who saw Draco’s mark. She’s been a human for two days and everyone she’s met has dug their talons in deep.

The brush rustles and a huge beast emerges, as tall as her, with four legs and thick spears on its head, pointed right at her. It’s eyes glitter in the firelight, big and brown, and she screams, running off in the direction of the creek.

Draco is headed back to the shelter when he hears her and his heart drops into his stomach. He should have known better than to leave her alone for even a moment, but he could tell she was tired and wanted to give her a moment’s rest while he gathered food and water.

“Hermione!” He runs back and nearly knocks her over as she is racing towards him.

“A monster! I…I can’t…I don’t know…” she’s panting and trembling and she throws herself into his arms, clinging to him, her fingers digging into her back.

“It’s OK. I’m here…it’s ok,” he says, stroking her hair, so much softer than he’d imagined, thick and wavy, she smells like the campfire and warm leather and he could hold her for hours if she’d let him.

When he looks up he sees the stag emerging from the brush and smiles. It noses around their shelter before picking its way carefully over the rocks and logs, headed for the water.

“Hermione, look,” he says, touching her cheek. “It isn’t a monster, look. It’s called a stag. They’re very gentle.”

She still holds onto him as she looks up, her eyes wide, watching the animal walk past them, so regal and purposeful, its legs delicate but strong. It doesn’t even look in their direction. The moon emerges from a bank of clouds, lighting up the clearing they’re standing in and she steps back from him, embarrassed at how she’d been hanging onto his body like a frightened child.

His face is kind though, a warm smile as he looks down at her. He steps forward, taking her hand in his.

“You don’t have to be afraid with me. I’ll protect you,” he says, taking another step.

She stumbles over a root. He leans in closer and she backs up against the tall, rough tree that blocks her path, still tripping over her tender, clumsy feet. In the sea to come that close, to invade her space would be seen as a threat, but Draco is smiling, his eyes are bright in the moonlight but their expression is soft.

“Shhh,” he says, running his fingers down over her cheek. “It’s ok. Don’t be afraid.”

She nods and presses her hands to the tree trunk as he dips his head, and then his lips are on hers, soft…warm. He parts them only slightly, to pull her lower lip between his and it sends a shiver through her blood…her newly human flesh ripples with goosebumps and he pulls back. She breathes in relief. This is something she knows, something she’s seen beneath the surface; but she didn’t know the humans knew of its power. A tiny sound of need, a whimper, a cry, escapes her lips and he leans in again, this time pressing with a bit more insistence, pushing her mouth open, the tip of his wet tongue swiping between her lips. She shivers and sighs into his open mouth, bolts of nervous, jittery energy swooping through her blood. He pulls back with a smile and she smiles back, her eyes bright, alive with energy.

“Magic,” she says quietly.

He laughs and presses his lips to her forehead before reaching down to take her hand.

"No, just a kiss,” he says, pulling her back towards the trail.

The night is dark until they make their way back to the camp where the moon bathes them both in milky blue light. He looks ethereal in this half darkness, his pale skin and white hair glowing, his silver eyes glittering in he moonlight. He is still holding her hand and stops to take the other, turning to face her straight on. She smiles and leans in. If he wants another kiss she’s happy to give it. He returns her smile and tips his face up to kiss her forehead. Suddenly she feels something different flowing through him, something other than the warm, sparkling happiness she’d been feeling before.

“I brought you out here to explain, to tell you about the spell I’ve cast. It isn’t complete. It’s…not my usual magic. I had to do some research at a bookshop in town…and its an old spell with…physical…requirements.”

She’s only known him for a one cycle of the moon but she’s never seen him so nervous, unsteady and trembling. Is he afraid of her? She rests her palm on his cheek. No, he’s not afraid. It’s something different.

“Tell me,” she says. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it.”

“Four days from now there is a full moon,” he starts, and even in the dark she can see that his face is red. He stutters his words. “The spell…it requires…well, the exact words are that the altar must be bathed in the rain of life.”

She stares. He clears his throat before taking her hand in his, turning it over and running his fingers over the lines of her palm, anything to keep from looking into her eager, willing eyes.

“It’s sex magic,” he says, his voice low and blunt, eyes meeting hers for a moment before darting away again. “I wanted to find the most powerful spell, one that I was sure would work with no dangerous strings attached like some of the darker spells for self gain.” When she doesn’t say anything in return he squeezes her hands in his. “I…it would be…it’s sex…um…mating…ritual…”

“I know,” she says, smiling.

Just as humans know about the lore and lives of mermaids and dragons and things unlike themselves, there have been mermaids well versed in the ways of humans…telling stories of how they twist their bodies together, merging with such intimacy as to create new life. She knows it must be something magical simply from the kiss he gave her. And she knows kissing is a part of the ritual just as it is in the sea.

“Oh…yes, I suppose…oh,” he shakes his head and she pulls her hands free to hold his face in her palms, his skin scorching beneath her cold fingers.

She kisses him again, licking into his open mouth, holding her body against his because she loves to feel his chest move when he breathes. He wraps his arms around her, his hand in her hair, heavy on the back of her neck and she feels the same heat, the flush he has on his skin, coursing through her blood. Draco breaks away after a moment, breathing heavily, his forehead pressed to hers.

“That’s the beginning of the ritual, isn’t it?” she asks. “I don’t know the rest.”

He is surprised when he feels her hand run up beneath his shirt, over his tightly clenched stomach, up to his chest. When she saw him bathing on the ship once, shaving the hair from his face and scrubbing his bare chest with water, she’d been reminded of one of the statues in her fathers palace, a majestic merman with a broad, chiseled chest and long, lean arms. Now it is alive in front of her. This body, this beautifully constructed human body, and she can see that her touch has had an effect; his eyes fluttering shut as he sucks air in sharply between his teeth.

“But I trust you,” she says. “The rest of the ritual. I want you to show me.”

“It isn’t...it isn’t the full moon, we don’t have to…” he’s stuttering and nervous in her arms, but she can feel the want, the need in his blood. She knows now what it is because she feels it in herself.

“I know. But it’s a ritual of love isn’t it?” She asks, kissing the base of his throat, her hands wrapping around to stroke his back and thread through his silken hair. “I love you Draco,” she says. “I want you to feel it.”

Draco takes her hand and leads her towards their rustic hut, the fire is low and the night is full of stars.

“I do feel it,” he says. “I do.”


End file.
